All You Have to Do is Listen
by The Dark Waltz
Summary: Erik had decided to die. The ad had been sent to the paper, his goodbyes were said. But when a body washed upon the shore makes him question his whole life. As he helps another who is plagued by the same physical dilemna, he learns to live anwhile, a woman a month later is found, burns all over. A greater adventure is about to unfold that Erik could ever imagine.
1. Prologue: The Base

"Sir, the time-line countdown has begun again. We've located the discrepancy."

"Show me." The commanding officer of the unit regarded a large screen before him as a clock far away started ticking. Images flashed past the screen, clips from the past and present. "Slow it down...There!"

The screen settled upon one photograph that from the look of it was taken in the the late 19th century, with its sepia coloring, but unlike most photographs from that time the individuals were not grim faced. Rather they all stood up straight with grins of all varying sizes upon their faces, but two specific faces stood out.

"Look at those two. Zoom in."

The scientist zoomed in using a toggle on the console in front of him.

"Not the most handsome gentlemen...Find out everything you can on these two men, it shouldn't be that hard to track down record of two men that fit that description."

Another voice piped up, "Captain! We found the location of where the hole occurred."

"Bring it up on the screen!"

Live footage of a charred mobile home just being extinguished spanned across the facilities enormous large screens.

"According to our sources sir...no bodies were found despite their being a positive that the occupants were home at the time." Two id profiles appeared on the screen. "A man and a woman, sir. Both in their twenties. Husband and wife."

The captain turned to his man that found the discrepancy, "Show the dated photograph." The hundred year old plus photograph appeared below the two ids. "I believe we've found the match."


	2. Erik

_Paris, 1889_

The gendarmes had been looking for a specter; the death of the count's brother was not received by them with acceptable ears. They believed it was just another one of His plans to thwart their authority. There had been numerous attempts on distinguishing this menace to their society but all such efforts failed piteously. It didn't help that none knew what the mysterious phantom thief actually looked like; some believed him to be dashingly handsome while others believed him to be grotesquely ugly. Even the higher authorities who used to hold certain positions in government (who had employed him to take care of some unsavory dealings for them) had never actually met him. But they knew of the rumors that he spread; that he was a ghost, a ghost that haunted the streets of Paris, but more specifically the Paris Opera House. Despite coming from superstitious backgrounds the officials did not believe in such rumors at all. Thus they were surprised when the Spanish count himself asked them to call off all investigations of the ghost. He had funded several of their dealings in the past, but upon his marriage to the national Opera diva he quit; yet he still held power among them.

Every man in the main office would remember the day, the beautiful Christine Nilsson glided in; she held all the grace of a noble; but within her eyes she held all the sadness in the world and an iron clad strength. She was well known throughout the world as a well-acclaimed actress as well as opera singer. It was said she could have had anything just by a glance from her ebony framed face.

The commander could have believed such a thing as that; for when she looked him straight in the eye that day and said, "Some ghosts are better left buried, and never thought of again," he believed her. Her eyes gleamed with a determined glint and her voice held a wisdom unlike many of her contemporaries. "And I believe monsieurs' that if you were to search any further into this matter you would truly come to regret it." And with those last words she gave them a slight bow and left with her husband.

* * *

Below the cellars of the Paris Garnier Opera House

Deep beneath Paris in its very catacombs stumbled a man who was ready for death to come and claim him, for he no longer felt there was anything left to live for. But his past ghosts clung to him as if trying to terrorize him one last time. Shadows spoke to him, as the fog around his mind grew thicker.

Shadows from his childhood chiding him. Figures from his prosperous life, that only brought him more pain and bloodied his hands. His few friends reminding him of the good times they had shared, but they were all so very superficial. Then one shadow seemed transform into the figure of a young woman laughing and spinning down the corridors.

He tripped trying to keep up with her, a horrendous cough wracked through his body causing him to fall down onto the stone floor gasping for air. As he lifted his head, he could see her again at the end of the hall as if she were waiting for him. Honey curls piled gently on top of her head, a few had escaped and hovered framing her face. Sky blue eyes wide and curious twinkled, and whimsical smile was on her face as she tilted her pale head at him. In the back of his mind a voice whispered that she wasn't real, for she had never smiled like that at him.

Then a voice, not her own issued from her mouth...he knew that voice but from where he couldn't fathom.

"You must remember, Erik..."

"This is going to be painful, I'm sorry Erik."

That last voice he knew...

"You..." he gasped, at the image standing behind him looking down at him and unlike the ghostly figure down the hall this one seemed real except for the times it would disappear and then reappear.

The man was dressed in a black suit, the same suit it never changed.

"I'm truly sorry." Then he disappeared, but with him gone the other shadows became more real.

His mother in her evening clothes, staring down at him with disgust written throughout her features.

"Get away from me you demon!" Her ghostly hand raising and slapping him, he remembered how it had stung and how he had never cried since that day when he balled in his attic, sitting amongst the shards of what seemed like thousands of shattered mirrors.

Another woman appeared for a brief moment and looked down at him with great sadness in her eyes, she was out of focus for his memories of her were hazy. She held out her hands to him, "Come here my dear one." Then she bent down low and kissed the air above his forehead, "There now little one..." A tear slipped down her ivory cheek, a brown curl falling in front of her face as she gave him a sad smile, "I have to go to my little girl, but I promise you something here and now. I promise you that one day you will meet her; I'm sure you both will get along well. I love you, my little Erik. Live up to your name, dear one." Then she faded.

The harsh realities, the people that he faced in his road to adulthood walked along side him as he once again began his way back to his home where he hoped he could be rid of these memories and rest for the first time in his life...and never awake.

His illusions grew clearer as the cobbled streets of one of the main cities in Russia appeared around him, then the tent where he performed for a short time as a magician popped up around him. The crowds gasping at his genius tricks...and then the screams as he ripped off his mask laughing maniacally.

Russia faded, as his mentor from Italy popped up before him; awe in his eyes at the young man's brilliance.

Then the the corrupt officials of the Paris government appeared around him; never seeing him. Their words as they instructed him to do their dirty work, sprung a long forgotten feeling upon him...guilt. The faces of those that he was instructed to target appeared before his vision, those unsuspecting households as he did his so-called duty for his country.

Then before the Opera, the Persian court rose up around him. The gold gilt columns and the two thrones that were occupied by the two of the most cruel he'd come across. Their leering faces were frozen in his memory. As they made him do tricks for them, and the horrendous ways of torture he had made in a desperate attempt to stay in their favor and survive those blood-thirsty rulers. His one true friend that helped him escape...the person who later became much like a conscience for him. Nadir Khan.

The man in the black suit appeared once more his image flickering. "Erik don't allow fate to decide your path."

He walked steadily beside Erik, as he neared his home his energy evading him.

Then her image appeared before him again. But this time her face filled with horror, his dear one looked at him as if he were some monster and ran.

He broke down in tears, once again reliving the day she removed his mask...confident that she'd be able to bare whatever was beneath it.

"Erik!" Her sweet voice turned into a horrendous scream.

"NO!" He clenched his teeth, his voice ragged. The scene that was about to play out before him disappeared, and he found himself at the entrance to his home still clutching in one hand a crumpled parchment.

Something was not right. In front of the secret entrance way to his underground home there was a mass, and as he drew closer to it he saw it was a man. His clothes were nearly all burnt from his body, horrendous crimson blotches covering his skin; and as Erik turned the man over even he jumped back at the sight of the right side of the man's face. It was no longer a face, only muscle and bone was left. Erik knew from his past that the man needed immediate attention, even through his clouded mind he could tell, that was if the man was still alive.

As he debated whether to let him lay, the black coated man appeared beside him. "He's breathing, Erik." And then he disappeared again as if he believed his work there was done.


End file.
